


Never Quite Free

by haemophilus



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: 50s au, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 09:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13028220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemophilus/pseuds/haemophilus
Summary: 1950s AU. Dennis and Mac never make it to California.





	Never Quite Free

**Author's Note:**

Dennis was folding his clothes into neat squares and placing them into his leather suitcase. The house was a mess - wine spilled on the floor, a few pillows trashed, and his son’s toys scattered on the floor. Dee and Charlie would come get them later for Brian. He ran his hand through his hair. Find himself - what the hell was that supposed to mean? All he’d ever wanted was to _find himself_ lounging by a pool at the age of fifty with his wife out of his hair and his son following in his glorious, storied footsteps. Instead, he was a homeless deadbeat dad known to the world as an invert. Which was blatantly untrue. Nothing was _inverted_ about Dennis, he was simply. . .more sexually evolved. It wasn’t his fault that he was decades before his time.

He’d read about people in California who agreed with him a few months before he tried the rentboy on for size. Maybe he’d try on a San Francisco accent too. He looked down at the suit pants bunched in his hand, and tossed them on the floor. They landed in the wine puddle; he smiled.

Shorts always suited his legs better anyway.

*

He left at ten the next morning, eager to miss commuter traffic and lunch hour. It was cold, but his window was open and blowing at his hair. The white sky burned his eyes - he’d have to get sunglasses at a gas station outside of the city. Dennis couldn’t bear to think of the looks he’d get at any of his normal boutiques. Unearned disgust or perhaps pity from people so far beneath him that he’d never learned their names was the last thing he needed the morning of a long trip. Driving through Pennsylvania traffic and terrain was anger enough without carrying around baggage from home too.

The expressway was a few blocks away when a little voice popped into his head - _go to Kensington._ _East Thayer Street. Go, go, go._

Dennis sighed, and turned around. He might as well continue finding himself where he started.

He kept his eyes in front of him as he made his way into East Thayer Street. It was in a ghastly part of Kensington, unsalvageable except by demolition. He pulled up to the house with the redbrick facing, careful to not step in potholes filled with grey water. With a deep breath, he rang the doorbell.

No response.

After waiting a moment, he rang the doorbell again. Nothing. Goddammit to hell. He looked in the living-room window where they’d had. . .their moment. Nobody. Dennis rang the doorbell more forcefully, one, two, three - the tip of his finger hurt. Silence. Dennis rested his hand in his face. Oh goddammit. God _dam_ mit. He was chasing a squatter -

The door swung open to reveal Mac, clad in tattered pajamas. He was rubbing his eyes. Dennis breathed a sigh of relief.

“Dennis?”

“Oh thank God,” said Dennis. “You were only sleeping.”

Mac gave him a confused look. “Yes. I tend bar and it’s early as heck. What are you doing here?”

The question buzzed in his head. He’d been so focused on getting here, that he didn’t have an answer. Rather than trying to find one, he said, “I’m leaving Philadelphia.”

Mac’s confusion deepened. “Okay.”

“My reputation is ruined, so I can’t stay,” said Dennis. “Have you read what they’re saying about me in the papers?”

“No, I don’t read,” said Mac. “But I did find one of those teevees just sitting in a dumpster recently, so I see the news. They’ve smeared you pretty bad.”

“My wife’s fault. She’s a real bitch,” said Dennis.

Mac laughed. “Most women are.”

Some of the tension left Dennis’s shoulders. He broke into a smile.

“True,” he said.

Mac ruffled his hair, fluffy in the absence of that awful brilliantine.

“Do you want to come in for a moment before you leave? I have a decent view of the skyline from my apartment, and there’s whiskey in the cabinet. Calm you down for the drive,” he said.

He should go, but -

“Sure.”

*

Three whiskeys and drunken laughter gave way to an epiphany about why Dennis was here.

“Mac. . .Mac,” he said, leaning forward in his rickety kitchen chair. “We should go to California. . .together.”

“What?” said Mac, the word carried on a laugh.

“Jus’ listen for a minute. I know. . .you’re uhm. Sexually advanced like me. We can go do that stuff in California,” said Dennis.

Mac laughed again. “You’re half-shot.”

Dennis burped. He poured himself more whiskey, and threw it back into his throat.

“That may be true,” he said. “But I still. . .mean it. I have nothin’ here. An’ you. . .I mean, look at this house. Your job. You have nothin’ here.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my house and job!” said Mac indignantly.

Dennis rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t rather be somewhere else. In the sun? Surrounded by pools and handsome men?”

The anger on Mac’s face faded as he took a sip of his whiskey and mulled over the proposition. “What about your son?”

Dennis shook his head, heavy as a pendulum.

“I’m proud of havin’ a son, but I‘m not built for women’s work. My sister has him.”

Mac sipped his whiskey again.

“I’m not an invert,” he said quietly.

“Listen,” said Dennis. “I know. . .there’s nothin’ wrong with me. For likin’ the things I like. So all of that ‘invert’ nonsense. . .it’s just labels for somethin’ everyone is too asinine to understand.”

Mac looked into his empty whiskey glass.

“Okay. California it is.”

*

Another glass of whiskey and then their lips were crushed together, scrabbling at clothes as they headed towards the bedroom. Dennis’s dick was hard in his fitted jeans. Mac smelled of sweat and leftover cologne. He was unshaven, and his beard scratched against Dennis’s smooth face. They fell onto the bed awkwardly, kissing lips and necks, sloppy and wet.

“Why. . .do you have. . .so many goddamn buttons?” said Mac, sounding close to hyperventilation.

“They’re in fashion!” said Dennis. He joined in unbuttoning the offending garments. Their hands met in the middle, and then palms were spread over Dennis’s chest, his stomach. Dennis reached around to yank at Mac’s bedshirt. “Off!”

Mac laughed at the demand. “Jesus H. Christ. Command a lot of servants growing up?”

“Sure,” said Dennis, yanking at Mac’s pants. He cupped Mac’s cock, and stroked it feather-light through his underwear. “Is that a problem?”

Mac sucked in a sharp breath of air as Dennis continued stroking.

“No,” he said tightly.

“Good,” said Dennis. He shimmied out of his jeans and underwear, and tossed them on the floor. Mac followed him, helped Dennis pull his arms out of his button-up, and then they were naked.

Kisses down his chest, his stomach, his thighs followed. Then, a hand was around his dick. Dennis groaned.

“I’ve never done this before,” Mac admitted. “Is this how it goes?”

“Use your mouth,” said Dennis through his teeth.

“Okay,” said Mac. His warm, wet mouth engulfed Dennis’s dick, and Dennis moaned. He gripped his hands in Mac’s hair. Mac moaned as Dennis tightened his fingers, and started jerking himself off with one hand. His drunk fingers and mouth were sloppy. It didn’t matter - they came hard and quickly, pent up frustrations finally, finally released.

By the time Mac left the bathroom from brushing his teeth, Dennis was already half-asleep.

*

Five o’clock. Mac and Dennis were sitting across the table from each other, shakily drinking coffee. They avoided each other’s eyes.

“I can’t go to California,” said Dennis, breaking the silence. “I have no money. . .no place to live. . .”

“I’ve never left Philadelphia,” said Mac.

“I’ve never liked anywhere as much as I like Philly,” said Dennis. He took another sip of his coffee.

Another long silence. This time, Mac broke it.

“That sex. . .that was pretty good. We could, uh. Still do it here. If you ever wanted to.”

The coffee dregs were bitter and hot in Dennis’s throat as he considered the proposition.

“Call me when you get better sheets,” he said. “I won’t fuck on anything less than 800 thread count again.”


End file.
